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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24778108">salad days</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldcarnations/pseuds/goldcarnations'>goldcarnations</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>permanent temporary residence [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Never Have I Ever (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - High School, Banter, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Graduation, Happy Ending, Misunderstandings, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Canon, Prom, Romance, Underage Drinking, Young Love, otherwise known as the: What Are We? fic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:47:14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,395</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24778108</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldcarnations/pseuds/goldcarnations</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>It’s all supposed to be so simple when he finally kisses her for the first time since Malibu during her senior year.<br/><br/></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ben Gross/Devi Vishwakumar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>permanent temporary residence [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1781386</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>106</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>salad days</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashlightinacave/gifts">flashlightinacave</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>set right after <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24513076">senior superlatives</a>.</p><p>written for leila (<a href="https://montygreen.tumblr.com/">montygreen on tumblr</a>) &amp; (<a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/flashlightinacave/pseuds/flashlightinacave/">flashlightinacave on ao3</a>) happy birthday you lovely, talented, sweet girl. your gifs, fic, and texts always put a big stupid smile on my face :) i'm eternally grateful that i know you &lt;3 </p><p>(and shoutout to the rest of the squad aka bhargavi and rose. the three of you make my heart so full)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>Definition of <b>salad days</b>: </p><p>// shakespearean term coined to describe<br/>
a time of youthful inexperience or indiscretion, or;<br/>
an early flourishing period, <em> heyday </em></p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It’s all supposed to be so simple when he finally kisses her for the first time since Malibu during her senior year of high school.</p><p>And it is—kind of. Because the kiss itself is simple. After driving her home from a particularly heated study session, when he finally pulls her close in his car, slanting his mouth against hers, hungry and <em> intent </em> like a man depraved—it all feels inevitable. In fact, it’s suspiciously close to muscle memory. His hand tangles in her hair. She scrabbles at his collar with greedy fists. He helps her into his lap. Time slows; the theory of relativity and all that.</p><p>It’s easy. It’s <em> good</em>. Devi doesn’t have to focus on anything except for the delicious curl of his tongue against hers or the pleasant shock of learning that Ben Gross’s mouth had gotten significantly more deft since sophomore year.</p><p>But as for the consequences, their shared unsteady breath after separating, everything that happens next, <em> that part</em>—</p><p>That part is decidedly <em> not </em> simple.</p><p>Then again, she shouldn’t have expected anything different.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Ben, ever the pragmatist, suggests that they talk about it the next day after school.</p><p>It’s not so much a suggestion as it is a trick: he lures Devi into his room with an indulgent, chaste peck. Then he sits her down on his bed and rattles off boundaries to consider as if he’s got a checklist, sitting cross legged on the floor and waving his arms.</p><p>Devi leans against his pillows, feeling prickly. All of this is so unfamiliar. In the years she’s known him, their relationship hadn’t ever been conventional in the slightest—not quite enemies, not quite friends, and the flirtatious aspect was so ambiguous that it became virtually unbreachable for half of their high school careers—and there had been no need for communication the whole time. At least, neither of them had attempted communicating.</p><p>And it had been effective, hadn’t it? After all, here she is now, laying down on Ben’s bed, her lip gloss smeared from his utter disregard for her makeup, listening to him talk enthusiastically about pet names. </p><p>“Moving forward, I think it’s important to know what we are to each other,” he tells her. He’s joking but she senses a genuine, charming sincerity in it. Her prickliness eases. “And that comes down to the minute, normal stuff. How else are people going to know you’re <em> my girl</em>?”</p><p>Devi stretches across his comforter, finally allowing herself to fully relax. It’s warm in his room. She tips her chin up to stare at his posters and the college banner hanging above his bed.</p><p>“Excuse me, I’m no one’s girl. I’m my own girl.”</p><p>“See? These are the kinds of ground rules we have to establish that are essential to this relationship.”</p><p>“Yeah, totally.” Devi raises her eyebrows and nods slowly, mocking and exaggerated. “<em>So </em> important. Just—<em>critical </em> to the future of our relationship. Make or break.”</p><p>“So what would you like to be called? Sweet cheeks? Honey bunches?” Ben drops his voice here, raising his eyebrows playfully. “Or just <em> baby</em>?”</p><p>“Don’t infantilize me, you pedo.”</p><p>“That takes out most of the pet names,” Ben says. “What am I supposed to call you now?”</p><p>“I don’t know, how about my real name? Or even <em> David</em>? You’ve been saying it for years and it’s working fine.”</p><p>“Darling? Sweetheart?” He peers at her. “Nothing?”</p><p>“What about <em> hey, you</em>?”</p><p>“I’m not gonna fucking call you <em> hey, you</em>.”</p><p>“Why not?” Devi rolls over and grins at him cheekily over the top of the mattress. “I also like <em> brother from another mother</em>. Or is that too long?” </p><p>He’s shaking his head, but the edges of his mouth are turned up. “Please stop.”</p><p>She adds, contemplative, “When I’m angry you can call me <em> Usted</em>. You know, and use the Spanish formal conjugations.”</p><p>“I take Mandarian.”</p><p>“We both do, Ben. It’s basic Spanish.”</p><p>“Look, I just wanted to test the waters,” Ben says, his hands up. “But okay, I get it. What we’ve got going on is casual. So let’s act casual.”</p><p>And just like that, her tranquility fizzles; the sunlight beats through his windows just as steadily, but her body goes cold. She bolts upright. </p><p>The prickliness, in all of its glory, rushes back, flushing her head to toe with pins and needles. </p><p>“You want to be <em> casual</em>?”</p><p>He gives her a puzzled glance. “Yes. Yes, I want to.” He knits his eyebrows together. “I mean, that <em> is </em> what you want, right?”</p><p>Paralyzed in place, she gapes at him. Truthfully, she’s never even considered the path of their relationship, and, like she’s mentioned before, they had never been great at labels. Even candidly, she has no idea what she wants. Her desires beyond kissing Ben have thus far remained largely undiscovered.</p><p>But she can deal with this. Her shock melts slowly. </p><p>“Devi?” He’s watching her closely now. “I’m good with whatever you want this to be.”</p><p>At this point, she almost wants to be casual. To take it slow. She knows these boundaries are definitely not supposed to act as some sort of <em> challenge</em>, but she’s too stubborn to back off. </p><p>If Ben thinks that she wants to be casual, then yeah. She’ll be fucking casual.</p><p>She tosses her hair back.</p><p>“Casual?” she says breezily. “Yeah. Duh. Sounds good to me.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>There’s irony in there somewhere, but she doesn’t care to parse it out. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Speaking of irony, they’re also terrible at the follow through.</p><p>In hindsight, it’s not so much ironic as it is surprisingly unexpected, especially since neither of them are remotely proficient liars. But it was supposed to be easy—keeping their classroom dynamic antagonistic, foregoing PDA in the hallways. </p><p>Their execution, however, is...fraught.</p><p>It turns out that they're both staggeringly talented at taking things to the extremes. They unwittingly excel at this for the first week since the kiss, which, upon further reflection, is so comically <em> like them </em> it’s painful—when they fuck up, they do so to the best of their collective ability. </p><p>So the petty squabbles in class ramp up; the battles to answer questions first in class only grow increasingly intense. And the nervous, surreptitious glance that Ben directs at her after each heated blowout only puts her farther on edge for fear of getting caught—but caught doing what, exactly?</p><p>Devi has a feeling that <em> casual </em> isn’t supposed to be anything remotely close to whatever’s happening here.</p><p>Eleanor is the one to put them out of their misery.</p><p>“Hey, by the way, you guys can knock it off,” Eleanor tells them after class on Friday. “We all know.”</p><p>Ben and Devi both freeze at the words.</p><p>“What do you mean?” Devi demands.</p><p>Eleanor leans closer conspiratorially.</p><p>“I mean that the whole school knows you guys are…” the sentence drops off here with a meaningful look, “you know.”</p><p>Of <em>course</em> the whole school knows.</p><p>The urges to groan and to collapse to the floor war fiercely within Devi.</p><p>Ben is sputtering. “Eleanor, you have no idea—”</p><p>"Benjamin, I am her best friend," Eleanor says in a deadpan, nonplussed. "I knew about you two literally hours after you guys hooked up.”</p><p>Ben quiets immediately. </p><p>The urge to collapse to the floor is winning, but Devi holds her ground.</p><p>Eleanor gives them both a look that’s concerned to the point of pity. The look is mainly directed toward Ben. “You guys are so bad at hiding it,” she patronizes. “Maybe I should give you lessons on how to be better at acting. On pretending that you’re not boning.”</p><p>"We don't need—" Ben begins to protest, but at the silent, solemn shake of Eleanor's head he falls silent again.</p><p>“Thanks, El,” Devi sighs. “We’ll let you know. About the—lessons.”</p><p>Eleanor leaves the classroom with one last pitying look at the both of them.</p><p>Ben winces.</p><p>“Well, that was embarrassing,” he says.</p><p>“Total understatement.”</p><p>He pauses. “She didn’t seem that happy for us getting together. I thought maybe she’d be a little more dramatic about this?”</p><p>“Believe me, she was over the moon when I told her a week ago,” Devi says dismissively, wringing out her hands. There are more important things to focus on; she’s reeling from this new revelation. “The important part is: what are we going to do now?”</p><p>“Uh. Act normal? For real now?"</p><p>She guffaws. “Clearly neither of us know how to do that.”</p><p>“Well, okay, fine.” His eyes narrow, pensive and hooded. “Let’s address the main issue then. I feel like this is happening because… we want to stay private. Or at least not ruin what we've got between us. Right?”</p><p>Devi nods slowly. </p><p>“I mean, I guess we don’t have to be completely private about everything then,” Ben says, his eyes flickering to hers. He falters. “We don’t have to act like sexless nuns around each other.”</p><p>“Is that how you see me? A sexless nun?”</p><p>“Why? Is that how you <em> want </em> me to see you?”</p><p>Devi rolls her eyes. “Excuse me, I ooze sex appeal.”</p><p>“Yeah, sure.”</p><p>“I hereby give you permission to act like it.”</p><p>A ghost of a dimple appears on his cheek.</p><p>“I just don’t want to put any pressure on the two of us,” he says finally, “because we’re still taking it slow. No point in rushing things, right?”</p><p>Obviously, the answer is yes. Full stop. It’s the rational, measured thing to do after all, to <em> take it slow, </em> to <em> not rush it</em>, because whatever is between them is so delicate and precarious and scarily new. But his smile when he says it—a hopeful, soft tilt of his mouth—makes her want to disagree with him. To go back on the casual thing. To dive in head first into a relationship, or even oncoming traffic if he just asked.</p><p>But she fights the urge. </p><p>“‘Course not,” she answers.</p><p>And it’s good enough for now.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Ben asks her to go to prom with him during the passing period right before AP Lit.</p><p>He’s standing next to her locker, holding a poster and chocolates, wearing a ridiculously loud button down shirt and a hesitant half-smile. The poster reads ‘I would be DEVIstated without you at prom!’, adorned with stickers and a few tepid, poorly-aimed swipes of glitter paint.</p><p>She has half a mind to make fun of him for the lame pun he had decided to use, but she can’t even think straight. What truly strikes her is the ordinance of the whole thing. The nonchalance of being in public, the knowing smiles from Eleanor and Fabiola, the blush high and rosy on Ben’s stupidly cute face. She’s paralyzed from it.</p><p>“Ben,” she cries, feeling her face flush, “oh my <em> god</em>.”</p><p>His smile slips, and all of a sudden his gaze on her is intense and worried. “Is this too much?” he asks her. He takes a step toward her; the poster dips. “I know we said we were taking it slow, but I—”</p><p>Devi shakes her head vigorously. A crowd is starting to gather to watch them. Fabiola pulls out her phone to start filming, and Devi wonders, vaguely delirious, if this is what casual means. Does it include the intensity of his blue-eyed gaze on her? Does it include the heart-wrenchingly hopeful slant of his eyebrows? Does it include a handmade poster covered in glitter, presented to her in the very public, cheesy way of which she’s always wanted to be on the receiving end?</p><p>Probably not.</p><p>“You are such an idiot,” she says, breathless.</p><p>He blinks once.</p><p>His voice is genuinely concerned when he asks, “Is that a yes or no?”</p><p>With a choked, jumbled laugh, she throws her arms around him and kisses him hard. </p><p>His mouth goes slack at first, but then it moves feverishly with her own, unabashed and practically obscene. He drops the poster to kiss her back fully, arms tight around her waist, and kisses her until she’s dizzy from it. There’s wolf whistles and clapping and a small voice in the back of her head trying to ask practical, judicial questions about what this means in the context of a kind-of-sort-of relationship, but she blocks it all out. It’s white noise—all things she can worry about later. </p><p>Ben has this look on his face after they separate, dazed and gratified, his mouth parted and eyes searching like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. There’s sparkles on his cheek. </p><p>Something erupts in her chest, like butterflies, but even more fleeting and violent.</p><p>“It’s a yes, by the way,” she tells him. “For prom.”</p><p>His grin goes wide and open. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Fabiola sends Devi the video of the promposal in the group chat after school.</p><p><em>Our favorite “casual” couple! </em>Fabiola texts after the video sends.</p><p>The video takes a few seconds to buffer, and then it’s there, ready for her viewing pleasure. She has to prepare herself for analysis, for seeing if distilled reality is really that altered from the way it looks behind her eyes and her hormones.</p><p>After some hesitation, Devi clicks to watch.</p><p>She cringes when she sees herself enter the frame. </p><p>No, she’s not cringing, not really, because she’s—<em>ruminating</em>. Studying the disconnect between her logic and whatever the fuck is happening here. Trying, with difficulty, to reframe what’s acceptable and what isn’t under the arbitrary, vague rules they set. The longer she watches, the more the lines blur right in front of her eyes.</p><p>There’s something about seeing herself in the third person, completely detached, watching a girl who looks like her tackle a boy who looks like Ben with an enthusiasm that gives her pause. </p><p>Eleanor texts back twice in the chat with lots of kissy emojis before Devi can pull up her keyboard.</p><p>
  <em> Is there a biggest idiot category in Prom Court??? </em><br/>
<em> Or the most in denial LOL!!!!!! </em>
</p><p>Devi sends back the middle finger emoji with feeling. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>In hindsight, there might be merit to the denial part. </p><p>But of course Devi wouldn’t know. After all, the denial would apply to her, right?</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Ben has this voice that he uses when they have sex sometimes: quiet and firm, detached almost, like he’s colder than he is, like he’ll take what he wants. It’s obviously an act, but when he uses that voice it still makes her lose her shit.</p><p>It works especially well when he fucks her hard against the wall, his hand shoved between their bodies, rubbing lazy, electrifying circles on her clit.</p><p>“Tell me what you want,” he growls. His breath is hot next to her ear. </p><p>“I want you to—<em>oh!</em>—to go harder,” she whimpers, throwing her head back against the wall shamelessly. </p><p>He does, and she practically weeps against his neck.</p><p>“Do you feel good, baby?” he says lowly.</p><p>For some reason, that line alone punches a gasp from her chest. She bucks against him, clutching his back, wanton and flush with need. “Oh my <em> god</em>, Ben,” she moans.</p><p>Something in his eyes shifts. He falters for a fraction of a second. “You like it when I call you baby?”</p><p>“Y-yes,” she breathes.</p><p>“How about <em> hey, you</em>?”</p><p>She breathes out a choked laugh that hitches when he moves again, snapping his hips against hers. He’s such an asshole, and the worst part is that he knows she likes it. “Shut the fuck up.”</p><p>The way he’s looking at her now—tender, <em> fond</em>, his blue eyes clear and keen and brilliant—it’s so much that Devi comes moments later, unraveling beneath him, with a mewl so plaintive and pathetic that it scares her. She’s never been so turned on in her life.</p><p>She blames it on his eyes. Fuck those expressive, startlingly blue irises. Maybe if they were green or gray this would be easier.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Devi painstakingly applies makeup the next day to cover up the violent purple hickeys that had bloomed under her jaw overnight, only to be informed that the concealer may not have been as full-coverage as she had been led to believe. </p><p>Further adding to her displeasure, Eleanor and Fabiola do absolutely nothing to contain their horror when they circle around her at lunch and gawk at her collarbones.</p><p>“Jesus, did someone punch you in the throat?”</p><p>Devi glares at them. “You guys both know the answer to that question.”</p><p>“Sorry, sorry. It’s just that, like, Ben’s mouth must be a <em> vacuum </em> or something,” Fabiola points out, looking wide-eyed and a little queasy.</p><p>“Looks like somebody’s getting possessive,” Eleanor sings.</p><p>Against Devi’s will, her pulse rabbits and catches in her throat. Sure, right, like <em> that’s </em> ever happening. She viciously stamps out the fluttering feeling in her chest—a sensation that feels dangerously close to <em> hope</em>—with a decisive, mirthless laugh, loud enough to startle her friends.</p><p>“No way,” she says. “We agreed. We’re taking it slow. No labels. We’re not—we’re not rushing it.”</p><p>Their faces shutter rapidly into a pair of matching skeptical expressions.</p><p>“Seems like Ben didn’t quite get the message, then,” Fabiola says.</p><p>Eleanor points to Devi’s neck. “This hickey is screaming: I want to be in a serious relationship!”</p><p>Devi bats at Eleanor’s hand. “No one is screaming that.”</p><p>“Listen,” Fabiola says, stepping away and giving Devi a pointed look. “I don’t know how it goes with guys, but when girls hook up we don’t normally leave marks. It’s just—etiquette. Not quite as personal.”</p><p>Eleanor raises an eyebrow at Devi. </p><p>“So you and Ben are <em> casual</em>, you said?” she prompts archly.</p><p>Devi groans. </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The thing is, after all these weeks, they <em> have </em>been keeping it casual.</p><p>The best they can, at least.</p><p>In retrospect, they had always been a little too involved with each other their entire lives for this to ever be casual or even normal—their attempts to cover up their burgeoning relationship at school had more than proved this point. Not to mention the other obvious issue that neither of them are even particularly normal or casual people.</p><p>So their relationship turns almost completely sexual.</p><p>It's honestly an accident, promise, but even then it still feels kind of inevitable. The potent mix of pent up teenage hormones, lack of genuine interaction during school, and the way Ben’s eyes turn heated during their arguments often takes them down a path that leaves their clothes strewn on the ground and his hands all over her body.</p><p>The main difference, however, is that they don’t hide behind a platonic label anymore, at least not when they’re alone. There's no more pretense to the whole thing. She takes off her shirt and he struggles with her bra and she laughs against his mouth and helps him out of his jeans with ineffectual little tugs at his zipper and then they fuck as thoroughly and sufficiently as possible. And—no, not <em> sufficiently</em>, it’s not as clinical or automatic as that would imply, even though it would make her life a lot more simple if it was. </p><p>But it’s a good routine. A careful, <em> respectful </em> routine, if not just a bit lingering and uncertain. </p><p>With each passing day, every hook up, the reality starts becoming a little more like those dot paintings. The ones that look cohesive from a distance, with the little inconsistencies that get bigger and bigger under closer examination. The little dots that created such a convincing image have spaces between them, cracks, parts felt but unseen. </p><p>Just like the spaces in those paintings, it’s the little things that start happening, slipping through when neither of them are paying attention. It’s not just the hickeys, not just the occasional uttered ‘baby’ that Ben breathes into her ear. It’s the other, innocuous, <em> intimate </em> things under the surface—the little choked growl he makes when she rakes her nails down his back, the unbidden nothings she whispers to him when he angles his hips just so—and if those little cracks feel risky, the moments after sex feel downright <em> dangerous</em>.</p><p>The goddamn <em> after </em> of it all, it’s— </p><p>It’s the horribly domestic slip ups, when they’re both too spent to notice how he wraps his arms around her and does this deep relieved sign that melts her from the inside out, how he wordlessly covers her with his blankets after she comes back from his bathroom, how she tucks herself under his arms for warmth—as if she fucking needs any, they live in <em> Southern California</em>—and folds her body into his because it's comforting and safe and scary and <em> thrilling </em> and—</p><p>The after is the worst part. </p><p>She can't stop thinking about it.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Prom sneaks up on her.</p><p>Before she even processes the passage of time, Devi's already stepping out toward her high school on prom night, gaping at the balloons and festive decorations at the front of Sherman Oaks. Funny how time works—it winds forward in a blur until she’s taking pictures at the photo booth with her friends and dancing to nostalgic music from the 2010s on the dance floor.</p><p>It’s just as fun as she expects it to be, but even as she distracts herself with each new song or lets Ben pull her close as they take pictures, there’s still a nagging feeling in her chest, and there’s just a few innocuous details that stick out if she squints: Ben’s been acting weird all night, his voice high-pitched and his hands shaking, and he had driven them to the school in his dad’s car. </p><p>It’s probably nothing, but something doesn’t feel quite right. </p><p>Devi chalks it up to self-sabotage.</p><p>“I’m gonna go get something to drink,” Ben shouts at her during the ending notes of a song they’re dancing to. “You want punch?”</p><p>She shakes her head. “No thanks.”</p><p>“Okay,” he replies, and then he disappears. That stilted, empty feeling comes back. She stares at his spot for a while dumbly, before she ducks the new tidal wave of people crowding the dance floor to the new song. </p><p>She flaps a hand at her neck and stumbles away from the crowd, feeling sticky with sweat and a little unsteady. Maybe she needs to take a break, that’s all. Heat exhaustion at dances is definitely a thing, right? She can stand in a more quiet spot and wait for Ben to come back. </p><p>Devi scans the room to track where he is, and sure enough he’s at the punch bowl only a few yards away. His back is turned toward her, facing some girl in a sequined red dress. She opens her mouth to call out to him but stops herself when she realizes that the two of them are talking to each other.</p><p>“So, are you guys, like, a thing?”</p><p>Devi freezes in place. She watches Ben pause while the girl flips a shiny strand of hair past her shoulder blades. </p><p>They can’t be talking about Devi, can they?</p><p>“Uh, yeah,” Ben replies, his voice barely carrying over the thumping of the bass. Devi has to strain to listen in. “We came together, so.”</p><p>So apparently they are. </p><p>There’s something off-putting about this conversation that she can’t quite place a finger on. It’s—intrusive. <em> Demeaning</em>. Kind of like they’re having a discussion about something extremely personal to Devi without even consulting her. </p><p>Or maybe not <em> kind of</em>. Maybe it’s exactly like that. </p><p>This conclusion makes Devi lean a little closer to their conversation, her awareness of her own lack of discretion for Ben’s privacy shoved to the back of her thoughts. Various emotions war within her, most of them being garden varieties of <em> angry </em> and <em> annoyed</em>.</p><p>“A <em> thing</em>,” the girl repeats, all coy and sweet. Devi can sense just how much she’s humoring Ben and her own stomach clenches. “But like, what is it, really?”</p><p>“I just said,” is Ben’s confused reply.</p><p>“C’mon. That can’t be it.”</p><p>She inhales a sharp, involuntary breath. </p><p>The captious goading, the sly way this girl is pursing her lips, the whole fucking <em>interaction</em>—it grates even deeper at her. Successfully wedges under her skin like an annoying, persistent thorn.</p><p>Devi shuts her eyes and tries, with olympic effort, to reason her way through her emotions. </p><p>Her first source of rage feels obvious: what the hell is this girl insinuating? Is it not valid to just be a <em> thing </em> or something equally ambiguous? How could their relationship become so easily dismissible based on its lack of an arbitrary label?</p><p>But that’s not it. Not really.</p><p>Truthfully, the question pokes at her in a way that’s much deeper than resentment at this nosy, well-meaning person, because privately Devi has been asking this question to herself for weeks. It had never been truly clear what the two of them were, dancing around words and creating excuses that would circumnavigate the big messy issue of <em> What Are We. </em> And why isn’t it enough for her? They had never needed labels between the two of them, so why does it matter so much now?</p><p>The longer she ponders it, the more she stews. Ben is still standing there, completely still. That bothers her too.</p><p>Finally, Ben answers, “If you have to know, it’s casual. We’re taking things slow.”</p><p>It’s technically the right answer, but the air still steals out of Devi’s chest as if she’s been punched. </p><p>A tendril of hot anger curls in the pit of her stomach. It whites out in her eyes. It squeezes with a vice grip that only tightens when she remembers her own stubbornness to go through with going slow in the first place, when she chafes and boils over labels in the context of reality, labels she agreed to abide by. </p><p>Bad habits die hard and all that, but honestly she's starting to get sick of her own shit.</p><p>If Ben says anything else, it’s inaudible, drowned out by the beat drop of some truly awful dubstep. Oblivious to Devi’s attention to their conversation and inner turmoil, the girl nods sagely, like they’re sharing a secret. </p><p>“I’ll see you on the dance floor,” she calls in farewell, leaving with a backward glance.</p><p>Devi’s rage simmers under the surface, red-hot and molten. </p><p>The girl’s already gone, but Devi stands there for just a moment longer, allowing herself to seethe silently, arms tight around her chest, to be the kind of furious that makes her lightheaded. Then she sucks in a quivering breath and exhales with a forced dignity that she’s too cross to actually feel. </p><p>For fucks sake, it’s <em> prom night. </em> She should be having fun. She shouldn’t be worrying about the nature of her relationship and getting upset over something so insubstantial.</p><p>Devi draws herself up. Squares her shoulders. Stalks over to Ben.</p><p>Actually, she’s feeling a bit thirsty. She hopes there’s two cups of punch in Ben’s hands, and she hopes they’re spiked. </p><p>She’d love to get drunk.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Ben reluctantly drives them both to an after party once the dance is over.</p><p>It's Devi's idea, of course, but she doesn't expect just how adverse he is to the idea of going. What's more, he acts even stranger during the trip there, nervously running yellow lights and rambling about the time, and emphasizing repeatedly that <em> okay, we’ll stay for an </em> hour <em> and that’s it</em>. It gets worse with each passing minute; she starts noticing Ben’s eyes flickering to the clock on the dashboard like a tick.</p><p>All this bizarre behavior, taking place in his dad’s car after prom. There’s probably something there. It would be more interesting to figure out if she wasn’t already in the middle of plotting the fastest way to get drunk at this party. She fumes silently in the front seat, thinking about labels and how much she would love to drink to forget them.</p><p>“Devi, are you okay?” Ben asks her before he unlocks the doors, studying her. The irritation she derives from being studied this closely only intensifies her desire for alcohol. “You’ve been quiet this whole ride.”</p><p>“I’m fine,” she says waspishly.</p><p>“You sure?” he asks while shifting the car into park. The doors click unlocked. “Things have just felt a little off—hey!”</p><p>She stomps toward the house party the second she can open the car door, and Ben is tripping over himself to catch up to her, despite the fact that she’s the one in heels. He finally grabs her by the arm once they’re inside.</p><p>“David—<em>Devi</em>—okay, c’mere.” </p><p>She pins him with a dirty look. “Not right now, Gross, I want to get drunk.”</p><p>“Sure, but we’ll get to that, okay?” He tugs her wrist gently. “Let’s talk it out. Right now.”</p><p>“I don’t need to talk.” </p><p>“Well, <em> I </em> need to talk then. I need to talk with you.”</p><p>“Wow, convincing argument.”</p><p>His mouth presses into a firm, exasperated line. “You’re being extremely difficult.”</p><p>Her irritation boils over. “Okay, you know what? <em> Fine. </em> I would love to talk, Ben. Let’s go have a conversation in the middle of this booze-soaked party, in the middle of a million of our peers!”</p><p>“Fantastic,” he says, and then he’s dragging her to the nearest room, which just so happens to be the downstairs bathroom. He hauls two people out, his hand clasped tight around her own the whole time, and unceremoniously pushes himself inside the room after her.</p><p>Her resentment escalates in the time it takes her to survey her surroundings. For one thing, this bathroom is extremely small. The incandescent lights give off an unflattering orange glow. There’s a used condom on the ground, presumably from the previous occupants. </p><p>She watches Ben shudder, but her own disgust barely registers in her mind. </p><p>“So you wanted to talk,” she says shortly.</p><p>“Yes, I did. What the hell’s going on, Devi?”</p><p>“Nothing,” she simpers. “Okay, great chat!”</p><p>She moves to push past him to the exit, but Ben steps to block her from leaving.</p><p>“No,” he says. “We are staying in this filthy bathroom from hell until we discuss this problem. I’m serious.”</p><p>“Great, so you can be serious about <em> something</em>,” Devi spits.</p><p>“Okay, see, <em> that</em>.” He levels an exasperated look at her. “I don’t understand what <em> that </em> is.”</p><p>“You know what <em> that </em> is.” </p><p>“Well, no. But I’d like to.”</p><p>There’s probably a much better way of hashing out this issue. She imagines that the right way to have a proper “what are we” discussion should be a civilized, calm discussion. It might have happened during a fun picnic or after a good fuck. Or both.</p><p>Too late for that now.</p><p>“I’ve been sleeping with you for a month now,” Devi snaps, her anger rising to her throat like bile. “I just think I deserve to know what this relationship is, if it’s even that. What <em> we </em> are.”</p><p>Ben blinks.</p><p>“We’re hanging out, I thought. Staying casual.”</p><p>“Yeah, whatever,” she scoffs.</p><p>“Wait. I thought <em> you </em> wanted to take things slow, right?”</p><p>“When did I say that?”</p><p>“I—I guess I assumed.”</p><p>She sputters. It takes her two tries to get out, “You don’t get to fucking <em> assume </em> how I feel and then tell other girls about it when they hit on you.”</p><p>“I’m confused.” His eyes shut and his face scrunches, as if he’s mentally solving a particularly difficult puzzle or trying actively to stay calm, both of which are infuriating. “Just—explain to me what we’re talking about. Please.”</p><p>“<em>Seriously</em>?” Devi barks, disbelieving. “You <em> really </em> need me to refresh your memory on how you were telling some random girl about how there wasn’t anything <em> serious </em>going on between me and you?”</p><p>For one horrible, satisfying moment, Ben shuts up.</p><p>His face flickers with a complicated expression, mouth open, eyes wide.</p><p>“You’re talking about when I was getting us drinks?” He says the words slowly, draws them out, eyes bright and disbelieving on hers. “Is <em> that </em> what this is about?”</p><p>Stung, she pins him with as icy a glare as she can muster. “<em>Yeah</em>, dude. Sorry that it’s so ridiculous that I didn’t like having—uh—whatever the <em> fuck </em> is going on here being seen as something frivolous or trivial.” </p><p>He drags his palm down his cheek. “Devi, I don’t think you’re being ridiculous.”</p><p>Devi <em>is </em> being ridiculous, is the thing. Even standing in front of him, her hands balled up in fists, she knows it. She knows that she’s overreacting and being pissy and, frankly, childish about the whole entire thing. His verbal dismissal feels just that—<em>dismissive</em>.</p><p>“You win, okay? I can’t do the <em> take it slow </em> bullshit anymore. I want the labels! I want to rush things.”</p><p>“<em>I win? </em> What the hell did I win?”</p><p>“Nothing!” She can’t help the vicious edge to her voice, so she leans into it. “I’m just—I can’t be nonchalant about this whole thing. I’m not some, fucking, heartless bitch, okay?” </p><p>“No one is calling you a—”</p><p>“I <em> can’t </em> be casual with you, is what I’m trying to say. I don’t want to be casual.”</p><p>Ben laughs once, sharp, a burst dam of suppressed emotion. He sounds just as strangled and manic as she feels. “Great! <em> Fantastic. </em> I don’t want to be casual either.”</p><p>Well.</p><p>She wants to choke or scream. She wants to laugh like he did. This should probably have been great news, but all of it is so devastatingly ill-timed that it feels like a bad joke. Her vision blurs, criss-crosses—so <em> this </em> is what it’s like to be so furious she can’t see straight. That, or maybe she’s going insane.</p><p>“So that’s it?” Devi bleats, incredulous. “Then what is this even about, Ben? Why did we do this?”</p><p>“Look, I <em> promise </em> that we can talk about this on the car ride. Please?”</p><p>Ben's not angry. He looks antsy, jumpy, like he’s about to run laps around her, but his face doesn’t hold a single trace of resentment, which somehow stokes the rising, involuntary hysteria rising in her chest. </p><p>He reaches for her and she flinches involuntarily. Angry tears prickle behind her eyes. She’s not sure what it is about his move toward her that affects her the way it does, but her skin itches as if it’s been touched. </p><p>The way his fingers linger inches from her skin is a perfectly-measured sucker punch: placating, <em> unfeeling</em>, although she’s not quite certain if it’s intentional or not. She can’t tell which would be worse.</p><p>The hysteria—it spills over. It <em> overflows. </em></p><p>She <em> seethes.  </em></p><p>“For someone going to an Ivy League college, you are a fucking idiot.”</p><p>“Devi, wait—”</p><p>Devi pushes past him, wrangling the doorknob until the bathroom door slams open. The anger bites at her heels all the way down the hall. She wanders around blindly, shouldering past her stumbling peers. </p><p>Ben’s voice is faraway, coming closer and closer. He’s chasing after her, and something righteous and spiteful twists in her gut. She feels—good. She feels <em> great</em>. The roles needed to be reversed lately. </p><p>She collides into something firm, her head ramming what seems to be someone’s chest, and when she snaps her head up it’s some guy holding a red solo cup, clearly stumbling his way out of the kitchen. Her vision is so red and blotchy that she doesn’t even bother trying to discern his features. What she does catch is the alcohol-bleary glaze across his eyes as he tips his chin to stare down at her, brain dead from whatever is sloshing around in his solo cup. </p><p>It’s not a bad idea, getting wasted. Going brain dead. It was her original plan, after all.</p><p>“Where did you get that?” Her voice sounds garbled and shrill, even to her own ears. “And what’s in there?”</p><p>The guy regards her with a punch-drunk curiosity. </p><p>“The kitchen,” he says, then belatedly, “Dunno.”</p><p>“What is it, Bud Light? Is there anything fruity?” Devi demands. When he shakes his head she throws her arms up. “Okay, do you have anything else that will get me shit-faced?”</p><p>“We have vodka,” someone offers meekly next to him.</p><p>“I might as well just have rubbing alcohol,” she mutters under her breath.</p><p>“Devi, please,” Ben says. He’s finally caught up to her and his hand is light on her shoulder, hesitant, <em> hovering</em>, like he’s trying to hold her back but doesn’t entirely know how.</p><p>Devi clenches her jaw. Shrugs out of his touch. Storms over to the counter and, with a wobbly hand, pours herself two overflowing shot glasses full of what must certainly be shitty gas station vodka, because <em> fuck</em>, she’s embarrassed and hurt and <em> angry, </em> probably—<em>definitely</em>—more angry at herself than at him. And now she’s going to get wasted to forget what the word <em> casual </em> means, to pretend that they didn’t just fight in a disgusting bathroom that someone already had sex in. </p><p>“Whoo, everyone look at Coyote Girl!” someone yells in the distance. </p><p>A small crowd begins to gather in the kitchen. Someone pours sloppy shots for everyone else into water glasses and it drenches the counter. Devi’s vodka dribbles over the rim as she lifts the shot glasses to her mouth, unsteady; her grip goes slippery and cold with alcohol.</p><p>She casts one last fleeting glance at Ben, and his eyes are so dejected and crestfallen that she hesitates for a moment. Thinks, sluggishly, about what she’s doing, and even more sluggishly about ramifications, but the coil of hot, smoldering anger at the pit of her stomach reacts faster. </p><p>Fuck it all. She’s not a side piece or a fuck buddy and it’s fucking <em> prom night. </em> </p><p>Devi knocks back the shots with a grimace, and the kitchen erupts in raucous cheers.</p><p>Good grief. </p><p>Well, if she’s going to get wasted tonight, at least there’ll be fanfare.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>She wakes up the next day in Ben’s bed.</p><p>There’s the taste of bile on the roof of her mouth and a pounding between her eyes that makes her blink hard, but other than that she feels remarkably less hungover than she would expect to be.</p><p>She’s alone.</p><p>She sits up, trying to think. Last night’s memories come filtering back in a muddled fog, but then sharpen to a mortifying montage of yelling and pounding shots. That hurt look on Ben’s face comes back in vivid, technicolor detail—his parted mouth, the shattered look in his eyes. All the anger and resentment and confusion churns uneasily with the nausea already in her stomach.</p><p>But now she’s in his bed, and there’s absolutely no doubt that Ben was the one who took her back to his house and laid her here.</p><p>She surveys the room. The curtains are carefully drawn to avoid direct sunlight. On his bedside table there’s two aspirin and a glass of water. Even now, after their fight, he’s still always taking care of her. It almost makes her a little resentful again—why can’t Ben ever be mad at her the way she gets with him?—but the feeling immediately evaporates when she notices how he’s laid out his Princeton hoodie for her to wear, the same one he wore right after Ivy day. </p><p>She worries the cloth of the hoodie between her fingers. It’s soft and threadbare, already a bit worn. There’s something inarticulately comforting about that observation. The fluttering is back in her chest.</p><p>She allows herself a small smile before climbing out of bed.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Ben is downstairs at the kitchen counter. His eyes are bloodshot and he looks a bit smudgy, not quite awake. He notices her immediately as she pads down the staircase.</p><p>“Morning,” he says. </p><p>She lifts a hand at him and sits in the stool across from him at the kitchen island. </p><p>His gaze tracks his hoodie on her body. When his eyes meet hers again, he gives her a weary, fond smile and gestures to a pathetic-looking plate of eggs on the counter. “I made breakfast."</p><p>She takes a bite. </p><p>Something crackles audibly from her mouth. “Oh my god,” she spits. “Ben, eggs are not supposed to be <em> crunchy</em>.”</p><p>“Sorry. It’s Patty’s off-day, and I have no idea how to cook anything.”</p><p>“Here’s a tip,” Devi says after she finishes coughing, surreptitiously pushing away her plate. “I don’t normally like my eggs with shells.”</p><p>Ben scratches his neck, his mouth quirked up in a sheepish smile. She likes him like this—likes <em> them </em> like this. They’re not in a fight. She’s in his hoodie. He’s taking care of her and making barely edible food for her to eat. </p><p>It’s the kind of nonchalance that exists within intimacy. The type that feels so deeply embedded in their dynamic that it’s not even casual anymore, not really.</p><p>Ben leans over the counter, resting his elbows on the table. </p><p>“I told Eleanor to text your mom,” he tells her, unprompted. “She thinks that you’re sleeping over with Eleanor and Fabiola.”</p><p>“Thank god.” Devi puffs out a breath of relief. “You’re a lifesaver.”</p><p>“I know,” he says. </p><p>She scoffs, but it’s true. At this point, he’s so good at anticipating her needs that she figures he does it for sport. </p><p>“Do you remember what happened last night?”</p><p>Devi hesitates. </p><p>“I have a vague recollection of vodka shots.”</p><p>“Ah.” He’s watching her carefully. “Do you remember our…conversation?”</p><p>She does. The alcohol had done little to nothing to wipe those memories away, unfortunately. </p><p>“We were talking in a very poorly lit, unsanitary bathroom,” she reflects out loud, “about what the two of us are. It was very emotionally one-sided.” The last part is pointed; she makes sure to inject the last of her irritation into those words.</p><p>Ben seems unaffected by this observation. He shrugs, but the side of his mouth tilts upward. “I guess. From an outside point of view, maybe.”</p><p>“Well, I was yelling a lot at you. That’s what I meant. You weren’t even angry—you kept wanting to leave the party, even though we had just gotten there.” She frowns. “And—huh. Why did you want us to leave the party so bad, anyway?”</p><p>A pause.</p><p>“Well?” she prompts. “You were so adamant that we get in your car. Where were we about to go?”</p><p>Ben visibly swallows.</p><p>“We were. Uh. Gonna go to Malibu.” He winces. “It was going to be a surprise.”</p><p>He’s giving her a look that’s properly sheepish and abashed, the space between his eyebrows closing, as if <em> he’s </em> the one who should be embarrassed. It hits her full-force, right then and there, how much of an idiot she is.</p><p>Her jaw drops. </p><p>“Oh my god,” she says, and then she’s hysterical again, just like last night, choking on a laugh. “You wanted to take me back to the place we kissed for the first time on the night of our senior prom? And you just—you just let me get <em> mad </em> at you for not saying I was your girlfriend?”</p><p>His face flickers briefly to an affectionate look of disbelief before settling on feigned offense. “Keep in mind,” he says, “that I never expressly granted you permission to do that.”</p><p>Her eyes widen in horror. “We could have had sex at Malibu in your car. Holy shit—and in your dad’s Porsche—and then everything would be full circle. Ben, is that what you were planning?”</p><p>“I was planning a picnic,” he corrects slowly, his grin open and amused, “to reminisce about the past, you know, at the place where we kissed for the first time. But I mean,” he shrugs, “if you were gonna be up for that, I wasn’t going to be opposed.”</p><p>She can’t help her rueful grin. </p><p>“You should have dragged me to the beach, kicking and screaming. You should’ve pulled me by the ears.”</p><p>“I was considering it, but goddamn it.” He laughs. “You realize that I couldn’t give a shit about where we spend time together, right? I <em> truly </em> couldn’t care less.” He parks his arm on top of the counter. “We could spend it at Malibu, or at some guy’s after party, or, jeez, a dumpster. As long as you’re there, I’m—I’m happy.”</p><p>Her face grows hot with a blush. She must have been delusional to ever think Ben wasn’t taking their relationship seriously, or that even she could take it slow with him. Because, she’s thinking now with a terrifying level of adoration and certainty, there’s no way either of them could either be casual about this. </p><p>She rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes. </p><p>“I was a legit nightmare last night,” she says in lieu of an apology. “I was acting so wack.”</p><p>“Yeah,” he agrees, smoothing down her flyaways. “You were.”</p><p>It’s oddly comforting to be pet like this. She likes his hands in her hair more than she can admit, so she gives him a half-hearted swat and only pretends to get annoyed at him for his answer.</p><p>“You’re supposed to act as if I can do no wrong.”</p><p>“Hey, look,” he says gently, “it’s common knowledge that honesty is the most important part of a relationship.”</p><p>She straightens and turns toward him to squint at his face. “Isn’t it supposed to be communication?”</p><p>“Well, what’s the point of communication if we’re just going to lie to each other?” </p><p>Devi settles in her spot on his countertop and rests her forearms on the edge of marble island, thinking. It’s not a prompt by any means—she’s fully aware she’s not obliged to respond—but it's a fill in the blank. An <em> opportunity</em>. </p><p>There’s a cost-benefit analysis to be conducted for her to say what she wants to tell him. The thing is that she’s already known her confession this whole time, and now the question is simply why she had never mentioned it in the first place. It could just be compartmentalization, or just emotional repression. Maybe plain stupidity. </p><p>But communication is important. Allegedly.</p><p>“I acted out yesterday because I’m in love with you,” she says. </p><p>He doesn’t say anything, and for a terrifying moment she sits still and holds her breath while he pauses stroking her hair and peers at her, pensive. </p><p>Then he makes a face at her. “That’s an adequate excuse, I guess.”</p><p>“<em>What</em>?"</p><p>“I mean, it is.”</p><p>“You’re being a dick right now, Ben.”</p><p>“What’re you referring to, exactly?” he asks innocently, then after she’s skewered him with her best glare he adds, “I love you too, Devi.”</p><p>“Oh, thank god.” She taps the back of her hand against him in a gentle smack. “Why would you hold out on me? Jerk.”</p><p>“Don’t act all surprised. You’ve known this whole time.”</p><p>“No I haven’t,” she says. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have acted like a gigantic fucking baby last night. If I had known, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”</p><p>“Jesus, Devi, don’t ruin a good moment,” Ben laughs, and he drops his hands from her hair to hold hers, tracing his thumb over her knuckles. He lifts one of her hands to his mouth.</p><p>“Just practicing communication.”</p><p>His resulting smile is soft. </p><p>“Okay,” he declares officially. “We aren’t <em> casual. </em> We are not <em> taking it slow</em>.” He uses air quotes to accentuate.</p><p>“Great, thanks for that announcement.”</p><p>“Now, if I were you I would shower,” he says. “You smell like vomit and alcohol. I did not do a good job of cleaning you up yesterday.”</p><p>She shoves him weakly. “So romantic.”</p><p>He steals her close for a kiss to her forehead. “You know me.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The rest of the year flies by, and before Devi can blink they’ve already graduated.</p><p>“We did it,” Ben tells her an hour after the graduation ceremony. They’re strolling around the venue hand in hand; the arena in which the event took place is beginning to empty. “That’s it—high school is over.”</p><p>He’s still wearing his cap. Devi had taken hers off immediately after she delivered the salutatory, but she likes it on him. It’s kind of adorable, how much he’s indulging in their graduation ensemble. </p><p>“I guess so.”</p><p>“Any regrets?”</p><p>She thinks it over. “There was some nerd that was obsessed with me in high school. I regret not filing a restraining order against him when I could. Did you know that he’s following me to college?"</p><p>He turns to smirk at her. “If you filed a restraining order, you wouldn’t have had the pleasure of dating a perfect ten.”</p><p>“So he thinks.”</p><p>“So <em> you </em> think.” Ben swings her hand as they walk. “Let’s face it, you would violate your own restraining order for me. You were the one who wanted to date me for real.”</p><p>“You wanted to date me for real too! You were just too much of a wuss to say it.”</p><p>“No, you wanted to make it official.” He says gleefully, pleased by the notion, his laughing voice reminiscent of the way kids tease about cooties. “You wanted to be <em> my girlfriend</em>.”</p><p>She feigns a long-suffering sigh, but thrills in the implications of the statement. Now that’s a label she can get behind. </p><p>“And I got what I wanted, didn’t I? Now you’re my boyfriend.” </p><p>She likes the way it feels to say it out loud. </p><p>He smiles at her smugly. “I still prefer <em> valedictorian</em>.”</p><p>“Ugh, don’t be the guy who peaks in high school and, like, lords your high school accomplishments around forever.”</p><p>“You’re just jealous that you got the ultimate second place.”</p><p>Devi rolls her eyes, but he’s got a point. “Whatever. You better watch your back for the next four years, Gross, because I’m coming after you in college.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” Ben hums, grabbing her by the waist. “I guess we’re just gonna have to see about that.”</p><p>Devi scoffs and steals his cap, then lets him draw her close for a lazy, breathless kiss. </p><p>This time he kisses her like he knows it’s going to last, like they have all the time in the world, like the aforementioned theory of relativity and every other scientific postulation about the nonlinear elements of space and time that’s in effect right before her eyes, from now to the next four years to forever.</p><p>When he pulls away he meets her gaze, his eyes affectionate, <em>steady</em>, unflinching, and all of it is so damn <em>easy</em> that she can’t help but laugh when it occurs to her—</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>That's the thing about the future.</p><p>It’s so much more simple than she could have ever expected.</p><p>Then again, she shouldn’t have expected anything different.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>
  <a href="https://shakespeareans.co.vu/">my tumblr/shithole/etc</a>
</p></blockquote></div></div>
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